


the sword without

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (though Dean doesn't think of it as that), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Confusion, Dean Whump, Delusions, Fic for Dean's Birthday, Foreshadowing, Gen, Hurt Dean, Memory Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s13e18 Bring 'em Back Alive, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam, Self-Harm, Warning for Dean's bad headspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: The kitchen isn’t stocked as well as it should be, and Dean curses himself for being so careless. He used to know no greater guilt than when Sam came to him, hungry, and Dean had nothing to give him. What if they run out of food? What if something happens and they’re stuck down here with only the stuff in the kitchen and the little Dean has saved and hidden for emergencies? It wouldn’t be enough, not even for one of them.Dean has to lean against the counter and count until ten a couple times. It’s okay, it’s okay. He can still fix this.





	the sword without

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathswaywardson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathswaywardson/gifts).



> It's Dean's birthday, and that means presents! :D This fic is for you [Tina](http://deathswaywardson.tumblr.com/), because you were so excited when I told you about it <3

 

_and terror within_

  
  


Dean can’t look either of them in the eye. He doesn’t stick around long after his meltdown, shies away when Cas says, hand already outstretched, “Let me.” The pain in his shoulder isn’t so bad anymore that it renders him near useless, just a constant throbbing ache that spreads all the way up to the right side of his jaw. And it’s deserved, anyway.

He shakes his head and he grabs his duffel and he walks away. After a perfunctorily shower, Dean sits down at his desk and field strips his weapons. It takes longer than usual; his right hand is shaky and weak. Dean pushes through until the familiar movements let him slip into an almost meditative state. His chest finally loosens enough to let him breathe, and exhaustion slams into him like a freight train. With the day he’s had, and the anger at himself and the entire situation still simmering just below the surface, he’d thought there’d be no way he’d get any sleep tonight. Now, he can barely keep his eyes open, everything getting fuzzy and confusing around the edges.

The ache in his shoulder spreads again when he lies down, curling up on his side. Dean hitches the blanket up to his hip, unable to decide whether he’s hot or cold. Weary to the bone, he falls asleep.

He wakes a couple times throughout the night, restless and confused, but is always under again before he can do more than roll over. In the morning, he’s shivery and parched. After drinking from the sink and throwing some water on his face, he stares hard at his reflection. A pale, spooked looking man stares back at him. Dean swallows and averts his eyes. He forgoes his robe in favor of a hoodie and sweatpants and the thickest socks he owns.

Something about the hallway is different today. Dean doubles back, grabs his gun, shoves it into his waistband. Then he goes to check on Sam, chest tight with anxiety, because what if something happened while he was asleep.

Sam is lying with his back to the door, still out for the count. Dean carefully creeps closer, shoulders sagging in relief when he sees that Sam is unharmed. A part of him wants to sit down on the bed beside him, stroke Sam’s hair like Dean did for him when Sam was a kid and needed to be soothed into sleep and nice dreams. Another thought distracts him from that—Sam looks thin. When did Dean cook last? He’s not sure. What if Sam is starving, and Dean didn’t know?

Heat builds behind Dean’s eyes. He needs to fix this, now.

Dean makes coffee, and then starts foraging for food. The kitchen isn’t stocked as well as it should be, and Dean curses himself for being so careless. He used to know no greater guilt than when Sam came to him, hungry, and Dean had nothing to give him. What if they run out of food? What if something happens and they’re stuck down here with only the stuff in the kitchen and the little Dean has saved and hidden for emergencies? It wouldn’t be enough, not even for one of them.

Dean has to lean against the counter and count until ten a couple times. It’s okay, it’s okay. He can still fix this.

He’s so focused on his task, he almost drops the pan when Sam shuffles into the kitchen with a “Hey” that sounds more like a question than a greeting. He hovers beside Dean, looks over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised. “Dude,” he says, “did you make egg-white omelettes? You hate those.”

Dean rummages around for a plate, squinting critically at the inside of their cupboards. When was the last time he cleaned in here? It looks fine, but for all he knows, there could be germs everywhere.

They don’t have a lot of orange juice left, and Dean hopes that Sam doesn’t notice how little remains in the container after Dean has filled Sam’s glass. To his relief, Sam seems very much distracted by the food piled in front of him. “These are wholewheat pancakes. What happened to you complaining they taste like cardboard?”

Dean shrugs, only half listening.

Sam starts to dig in, then pauses, frowning. “What about you?”

Gripping his half-empty coffee mug tighter, Dean looks down at the empty tabletop in front of him. His stomach clenches. “Not hungry.”

“Not—” Sam lets his fork sink. Dean can feel him stare at him. “Dean, what’s going on? First you go all out like this and then you won’t eat?”

Crap. He’s made Sam worry. Sam will think that there isn’t enough food, that Dean can’t take care of them. Maybe he’ll go out to try and get more food, and then something bad will happen to him. It’s dangerous outside.

“Dean! Hey, you just got all pale. Are you nauseous?”

It stabs at him to lie, but Dean nods. Everything so Sam won’t get himself in danger.

“How’s your shoulder? And I’m not saying you don’t have the right to refuse, but maybe you should’ve let Cas heal it if that’s bad still.”

Sam has started eating again, which relaxes Dean a little. His question confuses him though. Yeah, his shoulder hurts, but he’s been ignoring it. And he hadn’t been worrying about Cas until now, which is a terrible mistake. Cas left, and he’s out there, alone. And Dean hasn’t heard from him. At least he doesn’t think so. Where is his phone?

Dean tries to stay calm for Sam’s sake but can’t help his panic from leaking into his voice a little.

“You hear from him?”

Sam seems unconcerned. “Uh, no. But there’s probably nothing to report yet, I mean Gabriel knows how to not be found, you know?”

Dean swallows, heart in his throat. “Be right back.”

In his room, Dean unlocks his phone with shaking fingers. No calls, no messages. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or even more worried. Then he dials, and Cas doesn’t pick up, and Dean’s heart is in his throat again. _Are you okay??_ He texts, and then shuffles back to the kitchen quickly to make sure Sam is eating enough.

He hasn’t gotten a reply by the time he’s there, or by the time Sam says he’s full and Dean hasn’t finished his first cup of, now cold, coffee.

“Alright,” Sam says, “let’s get back to it.” He pushes up from the table and takes the turn in the direction of the library. Then he doubles back when he realizes Dean is following, looks at him in confusion. “What’s up?”

Dean licks his lips and shifts his weight where he’s standing rooted to the spot in the middle of the kitchen.  He needs to get out and get more food soon, but he can’t tell Sam that. Can’t let him know they don’t have enough. And Sam would want to come with, and that won’t do. All kinds of things can happen outside.

Sam sighs, and regards Dean with sympathy.

“Hey, look. If you need to kick back and get some rest, I get it. You had a big day yesterday. I can handle this on my own for now.”

Dean wants to nod, except, “You look beat, Sam. You— _you_ should rest.”

Sam’s mouth thins, and he drags a hand through his hair. Then he smiles, but there’s no real humor in it. “Can’t. Not until Jack and Mom… not until they’re back with us.” He shoots Dean another one of those painful smiles and then turns the corner.

Right, _Mom_. She’s not here. Why isn’t she here?

Dean washes the dishes and he gets a little lost in his head. His hands are raw by the time he stops, driven out of the kitchen by the compulsion to go and check Mom’s room for clues.

The bed is made immaculately. Dean thinks maybe he did that.

There’s nothing else, and it looks like maybe Mom doesn’t plan on coming back. Something must have driven her away, and Dean thinks he knows what it was. He’s always known there’s something wrong with him, because why else would his Dad be angry with him, would Mom leave them?

Dean’s eyes dart around the room until they blur and he has to wipe away a tear with the back of his hand. Sam won’t be happy, won’t rest, until Mom is back. He might put himself in danger. Dean needs to _do_ something.

He goes back to his room and paces there, anxiously worrying at his fingertips with his teeth. Then his eyes find his gun on his desk.

Mom might not like to be around Dean, but he knows she would defend them if he or Sam were threatened. Would come to them if they were injured. Maybe even when it’s just Dean who’s hurt.

Dean makes sure he’s got his phone and then he takes his gun and makes for the garage. He’s got to do this somewhere Sam can’t hear and become distressed, or even worse, want to hurt himself as well. The mere idea of Sam in pain makes Dean’s throat hurt and his heart race.

At the garage, Dean makes an automatic beeline for Baby, but then detours. He can’t risk damaging her by being too close to her while he does this.

Instead, Dean crouches next to the wall beside the stairs that lead up into the garage. Looking down at his body, he thinks. He needs somewhere that he won’t bleed out right away, somewhere that won’t cripple him badly enough he can’t defend Sam anymore if things go sideways. Then the pain in his right shoulder registers. He smiles because it’s perfect; he’s hurting there anyway, it won’t make much of a difference.

Pointing the gun at himself, it’s hard to aim precisely, but he’s pretty sure the bullet will only tear through muscle and not nick bone. Forcing himself to relax, he turns his head away, squeezes his eyes shut, and pulls the trigger.

The noise is deafening and leaves his ears ringing while the force of the shot knocks him back. Then the pain starts and Dean lets the gun clatter to the ground with a gasp. It hurts worse than Dean remembers from the last time he got shot; probably the lack of adrenaline. His left hand shakes as he digs his phone out of his pocket and clumsily opens his and Mom’s text thread. _Got shot_ , he types, _need help_. He hits send.

Blood is running down Dean’s arm, soaking his hoodie to the sleeve. The pain spreads and Dean’s stomach heaves. He pants and grinds his teeth together. Sending the text makes him realize he still hasn’t heard from Cas. _Come back home_ , Dean types, or tries to type. _It’s safer here_. Exhausted, Dean puts the phone down. He slumps against the wall and does his best to breathe through the agony.

The phone doesn’t ring. Cold sweat breaks out on Dean’s face and under his arms. He shifts, and the pain briefly makes his vision white out. Maybe Mom called Sam. Told him she’s coming. That’s good, it means Sam will stay home where it’s safe. Dean presses the button that makes the screen light up with one trembling finger. His blood makes drip drop drip sounds as it falls onto the cold concrete.

Around the third time Dean makes the screen light up, things start getting hazy. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. He’s freezing, and he hurts. But he’s got to endure this. Bad things will happen if he doesn’t, he’s sure of it.

He decides it’s okay if he just keeps his eyes on the phone. He does that, but then suddenly his eyes are closed and Sam is yelling his name.

“Dean, what the fuck, what—what _happened_?!”

Sam looks shocked. His eyes are wide and his hands are smeared with Dean’s blood where he’s touching him. Dean wants to tell him that it’s okay but he’s so woozy, it’s hard to make his mouth work. Suddenly, Sam’s got their first aid kit from Baby’s trunk and Dean puts all the strength he can summon into pushing Sam’s hands away when they reach for him.

“No, you—it’s f-for Mom.”

“What?!”

Sam doesn’t get it. He tries to reach for Dean again and Dean flinches away, then gasps in pain. “It’s so she c-comes back.” He almost drops the phone when he holds it out to Sam, text thread on display.

“She’s gon-gonna come Sam, just… need to w-wait.”

Sam stares at the phone, then at Dean. His face doesn’t clear. He splutters, “Are you saying—are you saying you did this to _yourself_ , on _purpose_?”

Dean pants and looks up at Sam, uncomprehending of the terror in Sam’s expression.

“ _Jesus_.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, briefly squeezes his eyes shut. This time, he firmly pushes Dean’s hands away when he unzips his hoodie and rips away his tee at the collar to check out the bullet hole. “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

The question does nothing but confuse Dean. Tears of pain and defeat prick at his eyes. He doesn’t understand why Sam doesn’t understand his plan, why he doesn’t approve. What if Mom doesn’t come when she realizes the threat wasn’t real? What if she comes but doesn’t stay? What if Dean made Sam so angry he leaves with her? What is he going to do then?

Sam must mistake Dean’s distress for pain because he starts shushing him while he fishes for the bullet, “Almost done, almost got it. Breathe, Dean!”

He’s just finished with the pressure bandage and putting Dean’s arm in a sling when Dean’s phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call. Dean tries to lean away, tries to grab for it. “Sam, Sam, it’s Mom! It’s worked—” Sam puts a hand on Dean’s chest and holds him back. He picks up Dean’s phone and then glances at him.

“It’s Cas.” Sam swipes the screen. “Cas, hey, right now is not a good—what?” He looks sharply at Dean. “He did? What did he—” He grimaces. “No, he’s not, actually. Hold on.” Sam pushes to his feet and gives Dean a look that seems to say _stay put_. Then he walks a few feet away with the phone pressed to his ear, keeping Dean in his line of sight, voice too low for Dean to make out what he’s saying.

Dean fights to stay awake but it’s difficult. The next thing he knows, Sam is carefully heaving him up. It hurts to move. Dean struggles to get his feet under him, a wave of vertigo hitting him and making black spots dance in his vision. His left arm goes over Sam’s shoulders and Dean clenches his fingers into the fabric there. “I got you,” Sam is saying, “I got you, c’mon.”

 _What about Mom?_ Dean wants to ask. _Did she call you?_ But he’s so wobbly with the blood loss, it takes all his strength and concentration to stay upright. He _can’t_ pass out. What if something happens to Sam and Dean isn’t there? What if Mom comes and they leave together and Dean doesn’t even get to say goodbye? His breathing hitches and Sam’s hold on him tightens. “Almost there. Jesus, Dean, you did a number on yourself.”

They’re in the library now. Sam guides Dean to sit down in a chair, which turns into more of a controlled fall. Dean leans heavily against the table and pants, winded. Sam aims a finger at him, “Stay there. Okay? Don’t do— _anything_. Be right back.” With one last, stern look, he turns around, raking his fingers through his hair. They’re shaking. Dean looks after him with worry. Something must be wrong. Dean looks around but can’t see any threat, anything that would explain Sam’s behavior. Maybe it’s not that something’s wrong, maybe Sam’s just that angry with Dean. If only he knew what he did wrong, then Sam wouldn’t be angry, won’t leave and get himself hurt.

Tears want to spring to Dean’s eyes but he blinks them away. He’s trying to get himself together enough to go after Sam and fix this when Sam is back. After setting a glass of water, a painkiller, and a plate with a sandwich in front of him, he gets Dean out of the bloodied clothes, cutting the ruined tee away with a pair of scissors. Then he helps him into another zip-up hoodie that is too big on Dean so it must be one of Sam’s. He drops a blanket over Dean’s shoulders too, which Dean doesn’t understand until he realizes he’s shaking something fierce.

Sam points at the food. “You’re gonna eat this, and you’re gonna take something for the pain, and then you’re going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on with you.”

Dean stares at the sandwich, then reaches for the water. He spills some on the table, his hand unsteady, but he hopes maybe this will placate Sam. It doesn’t.

“Dean, you need to eat,” Sam says, impatiently, when Dean continues to pretend he doesn’t see the sandwich right in front of him.

Dean clenches his jaw. He _can’t_.

Sam blows out a breath. He looks like he’s about to yell, or hit something. “What is _up_ with you? You didn’t eat this morning either! Do you _want_ me to throw this away?!”

“No!” Panic surges through Dean. “You can’t, there’s not enough!” The words are out of his mouth before he can take them back.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Not enough what? Food?”

Dean bites his tongue and looks down at the table.

“What the hell are you talking about? There’s enough food here to last at least three more days before we need to make a run. It doesn’t make any sense for you not to eat, Dean.”

Dean says nothing. Anything could happen in three days, but Sam might freak out if Dean tells him that.

Sam sighs. “Look, if it’ll mean you eat I can go and get some more stuff, but—”

“No!” Dean stares at Sam in terror. “No, you can’t go outside! It’s dangerous!”

Sam gapes at him. “It’s dange—okay, what the _fuck_ is going on in your head?! You’re not drunk, you haven’t—” He breaks himself off, takes a deep breath. “You know what, I’m gonna go check for hexbags. Like, everywhere.”

“Sam—”

But Sam has squared his shoulders, towering over Dean. “Stay,” he orders, “Eat.” Then he’s gone.

Dean looks down at the plate in front of him. His stomach growls. He closes his eyes and turns his head away.

Sam is taking too long. Dean fidgets with the need to check on him. He tries to stand, then falls heavily back into the chair when a wave of dizziness hits him. He’s left gasping, clutching at his arm, his shoulder screaming at him.

Dean doesn’t understand why it didn’t work. He’d thought Mom would care enough to come if he was hurt, even if only to make sure that Sam wasn’t hurt as well, that he was safe. But he must have been wrong. Dean digs his fingers into his arm, then hisses with how much that hurts. What if this was a mistake? What if something happens and he can’t protect Sam because he crippled himself worse than he thought? What if—

“Thanks. See you then.” Sam is entering the library. He hangs up the phone and frowns at Dean’s untouched plate. “No hexbags, at least none that I could find.” He pulls out the EMF meter, turns it on and holds it close to Dean. It doesn’t flare up. “And no EMF either, so no ghost sickness.” He sits down on the tabletop, fixes Dean with a look. “That leaves your little trip with Ketch yesterday, remember? You said you got shot but that he took care of it. Did anything else happen? Did you come into contact with any magic, anything supernatural?”

Dean shakes his head, even though he isn’t sure. When he thinks hard, he can remember yesterday, but none of that is important. It will only distract him, and even worse, it’s distracting _Sam_. If Sam is distracted with Dean he won’t look out for himself and that’s a no-go.

Sam sighs and drags a hand down his face, looking defeated for some reason. And tired; Dean will need to get him lie down and rest soon. Then he remembers that Sam was on the phone when he came back. “Is Mom coming?” Dean asks, hopeful. Maybe it did work after all.

Instead of happy, Sam looks heartbroken. “No, Dean, she’s not coming. She can’t, because she’s stuck in another dimension. The one that you travelled to through a portal just yesterday. The apocalypse world where Michael is in charge. It’s—please tell me you haven’t somehow forgotten everything that’s happened in the last six months.”

Sam is staring at Dean with something like despair. And now that he says it, Dean doesn’t know how he could ever have forgotten about this detail. What kind of stupid, self-centered person must he be to forget something like this?

Unable to look at Sam, Dean lowers his eyes at where he’s fidgeting with the edges of his blanket in his lap. “No, I—I’m sorry, Sam.”

The table creaks when Sam shifts his weight. “You don’t need to apologize. Okay? I’m just trying to figure this out.”

Figure what out, Dean wants to ask, but Sam is already talking again. “Dean, listen. Cas is on his way back here and he’s going to bring some take-out and some groceries. There’s more food coming, which means you can definitely eat your sandwich.”

Dean mulls this over. “After Cas is here,” he decides. He can’t risk something not working out and Cas not being able to get them more food after all.

Sam looks on the verge of yelling. Dean doesn’t understand why he’s being so unreasonable about this.

“Dean, Cas won’t be here until tomorrow morning. You can’t go that long without eating. It’s not healthy, especially with how much blood you’ve lost.”

Dean shrugs, awkward, with one shoulder. Even the slight jostling has the pain flare up again and he only just so manages not to make a face. “I’ll deal.” He hates to starve, but he can deal.

“It’s not about dealing. It’s about taking care of yourself.” Sam fixes Dean with a look. “What exactly are you worried about here?”

Dean plays with the edges of his blanket and keeps his eyes low.

Sam can’t know. It’s Dean’s job to protect him from it. He wouldn’t understand.

Sam makes a frustrated noise and gets off the table. He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Take the painkiller at least.”

Dean says nothing.

Sam falters. He stops, something unreadable on his face. “ _Dean_ —c’mon man, you look like hammered crap. You need something for the pain.”

Dean looks away.

He can hear Sam’s sharp inhale, how he rakes his fingers through hair in agitation.

“Is it the same thing? You think there’s just, what—suddenly not going to be enough of them when we need them?”

Dean stays silent, which must be answer enough.

Sam paces for a moment, then stops beside Dean. Dean tries to sit very still so the pain in his shoulder doesn’t betray him again.

“Dean. Could you look at me?” 

A little wary, Dean looks up at him.

“Listen. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to figure it out. Okay? In the meantime, can you trust me that you’re behaving extremely irrationally right now and should follow my lead?”

Dean tenses. His hands fist his blanket.

“I’m keeping you safe, Sam.”

“No, you’re not! You’re _hurting_ yourself, that’s what you’re doing!”

It’s getting too draining to stare up at Sam, so Dean glares at the tabletop instead. He does his best to appear annoyed and stubborn, while in his chest his heart is beating double time and it’s starting to feel like he can’t get enough air.

“You don’t understand.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I _need_ to do this.” Bad things will happen if he doesn’t. Sam will get hurt and Dean will be helpless to do anything about it. Sam will _die_.

“You know what?” Sam is saying. “Fine. You wanna be stubborn and not eat? Then I’m not eating either.”

Dean’s eyes fly open and he stares at Sam in shock. Sam has his arms crossed over his chest; he’s serious. Dean thinks Sam is still talking but he can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. His chest hurts. He wants to say something but it’s like his mouth doesn’t work right.

Suddenly, Sam is crouched beside him, and his hand is on Dean’s good arm.

“Hey! Hey, hey, Dean, calm down! I take it back. Okay? I take it back, but you gotta breathe for me.” He takes a deep breath, motions urgently for Dean to do the same.

Dean tries. He’s got to, so Sam will take back the not eating thing. Slowly, the ringing stops and the spots clear from his vision. He’s left winded and exhausted. “Jesus, Dean,” Sam is saying, his big hand petting the top of Dean’s head. He leaves briefly and comes back with a glass of orange juice. Dean decides that juice is not vital for their survival so he takes it, hoping Sam doesn’t notice how he can’t quite keep his hand steady.

Sam goes to put the sandwich in the fridge, but then he stays with Dean. He gets a notepad and a pen and he asks Dean to narrate exactly what he remembers of yesterday and early this morning. Dean plays along. He knows Sam likes puzzles. Dean doesn’t understand where Sam is seeing one here, but he likes having him in his line of sight. It’s not easy to concentrate though. The paper Sam is making his notes on makes Dean think of how much paper there is in the library. What if there’s a fire?

The mere thought has his heart pound again. He tries not let his distress show while Sam starts pulling books from the shelves and piles them on the table beside him. When Sam seems immersed enough, Dean carefully pushes to his feet. It makes the pain flare up again, sharp and dizzying, but he’s aware of Sam’s eyes on him so he pushes through. The edges of Dean’s blanket trail on the floor while he shuffles slowly around the library, trying to appear like he’s not looking for something.

“Dean? Um, what are you doing?”

“Just checking,” Dean answers absently. There aren’t any fire extinguishers. This is bad. Dean thinks there are some down in the garage though.

“Checking for what?”

“Nothing. Be right back.” Dean starts to make his way towards the garage but then suddenly Sam is on his heels.

“Dean, wait, where are you going?”

Damn Sam and his freakishly long legs.

“Just need something from the garage. Go back to reading, Sammy.”

Instead of listening, Sam easily out-paces him, blocking the way with his suspicious shoulders and worried eyes.

“What do you need from the garage, Dean? You should rest, I can get it for you.”

Dean glares, but then he thinks. Sam is smart; if Dean explains this he will see reason and let Dean do this.

“There’s no fire extinguishers in the library. We—there should be some.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift, like he’s not quite sure what to make of this. “Fire extinguishers,” he repeats. “Because you think there could be a fire.”

“There are books in there,” Dean says.

Sam sighs. “Yeah, there are.” He holds up his hands. “But, Dean, that doesn’t mean there is going to be a fire. You know that fire does not come from paper, right?”

The longer they stand there and talk about fire, the tighter Dean’s chest gets. It’s good that Sam feels safe here, but Dean’s got to make sure that they actually are. He tries to walk around Sam, but Sam puts a hand on his chest, holds him back with gentle force.

“Woah, wait! I don’t mind if you want to have them up here just in case. Okay? But how about this—how about _I_ go down there,” he points behind himself with his thumb, “and haul one of them up here, and _you_ go and make lunch?” He gives Dean a sheepish smile. “I’m a little hungry. Something light though, okay? And hey, I can get a second fire extinguisher so the kitchen has one too! Deal?”

Dean eyes Sam, feeling torn. Sam wants to do Dean’s job, and that is not okay. But if he’s hungry, Dean can’t just walk away and ignore that.

Sam’s expression softens. “Look, I’ll be careful, okay? And I’ll be right back. Five minutes, tops.”

Dean swallows. His heart is already picking up an anxious rhythm, but he nods.

Sam claps him on his good shoulder, but in a way like he thinks Dean’s bones are made of glass. “Be right back,” he says with a smile. Then he turns the corner and is gone.

Dean looks down at his watch so he’ll know when five minutes are over. Holding the edges of his blanket together over his chest, he forces his feet to move towards the kitchen, scolding himself for forgetting about lunch. His shoulder throbs. In his head, Dean goes over his options. Sam wants something light. There should still be some leftover sweetcorn soup with chicken in the freezer that Dean made last week on a whim.

While he works on getting it ready, Dean checks his watch. It’s been four minutes. He stares at the soup where it’s starting to thaw and break into pieces in its hot water bath. Sam should be back any moment now. Everything is fine.

Another piece breaks off the soup block. It’s been five minutes and ten seconds. Everything is _not_ fine. He should have gone with Sam. There are stairs that lead down from the garage, and they can get tricky when you’re carrying something. Dean’s breathing speeds up with the images that flash in front of his eyes; of Sam lying there with a broken foot, in pain, calling for Dean. Of him hitting his head and bleeding out and dying there alone.

Dean’s hand shakes as he reaches to turn off the stove and hurry down to the garage. Suddenly, there’s footsteps from down the hall, and when Dean turns around, Sam is entering the kitchen, a smile on his face, holding up the fire extinguisher like a prize.

“Hey, smells good in here.”

He’s okay. He’s _okay_.

The relief hits Dean almost like a blow. Before it even registers with him what he’s doing, he’s crossing the kitchen, anxious with the need to make sure that it’s true what he’s seeing.

“Man, those things are heavier than they look. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just leave it here by the door and you can—”

Sam has set the fire extinguisher down. He’s just about to straighten when Dean pulls him in an awkward one-armed hug.

“Woah! Hey, Dean, you okay?”

There’s surprise and confusion in Sam’s voice, but he hugs Dean back, wrapping him up carefully in his arms. Unable to speak, Dean fists his hand into Sam’s shirt at his back. He can see that Sam is not injured. Can feel that he is in one piece.

The feeling that there’s a fist around his heart, suffocating him, doesn’t go away.

“Hey, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

Dean needs to let go. To tell Sam that everything is fine.

Holding on tighter, his voice raspy, Dean says, “You’re okay.” Half a statement, half a question.

Sam huffs in his ear. “Course I am. Told you I’d be careful, right?”

He squeezes Dean, gently, then draws back. “How about you, you gonna lose that blanket anytime soon?” He asks, smiling and lightly teasing.

Holding onto the blanket, Dean scowls. “No.” He likes it. It feels safer somehow. And also he’s cold.

Sam wants to keep working while he eats, so Dean lets him take his bowl of soup back to the library and follows him there. Someone needs to make sure Sam actually eats, with how absorbed he tends to get when there’s books involved.

Once the bowl is empty and Sam is busy pulling more books and files from the shelves, Dean starts looking for the strategically best place to put the fire extinguisher. He finally settles on the wall right beside the entry to the library. For a brief moment, he feels a little bit safer, a little bit more like he’s got things under control. Then he looks at his watch and realizes how long it’s been since they’ve last heard from Cas.

He’s already hit the call button when it occurs to him how he might get Cas in trouble by calling him. What if the noise startles him while driving? What if something came up and there are enemies and the phone ringing will betray Cas? Dean swipes to end the call and sends a text instead.

_u okay???_

Phone clutched tightly in his hand, Dean starts to pace. When it starts to vibrate five minutes later, he’s so startled he almost drops it. Cas is calling him, and that probably means something is wrong. Dean swipes the screen, heart racing. How fast can they be there? What if it’s not fast enough? What if—

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is a croak.

_“Dean, are you alright? You tried to call me.”_

Dean’s shoulders slump in relief—only to tense again.

“Are you driving while you’re on the phone?” He doesn’t wait for Cas to reply. “That’s dangerous, Cas! Park on the shoulder and then call me again.”

Dean hangs up and paces. Sam is watching him with something like concern, as if Dean didn’t just made a perfectly reasonable request.

Dean’s phone rings.

 _“I’m not driving anymore,”_ Cas says by way of greeting. _“I’m not going to get in an accident while on the phone with you, you can calm down.”_

Dean _is_ calm, except maybe his hands are shaking a little and his breathing seems oddly loud. It’s just that he can’t help but think about all the other ways Cas could get in an accident. Just because Cas will drive more carefully now doesn’t mean other people will do the same.

“How far away are you?”

_“Far enough that I won’t be there until tomorrow morning.”_

Dean doesn’t like that at all. That’s far too much time during which something could happen to Cas and Dean wouldn’t even know.

Cas doesn’t seem to see it that way, and denies Dean’s demand of stopping every hour and sending a text that he’s alright. Some of Dean’s desperation much seep into his voice though, because Cas finally agrees to text him every three hours.

It’s difficult to end the call. As soon as they do, Dean’s distress rachtes up another notch. He hates it when Cas isn’t home. Bad things happen to Cas when he isn’t home. Bad things happen to Sam and Dean when Cas isn’t there.

Pacing becomes too strenuous, but sitting still is almost unbearable. Dean wants to go check the wards, but that’d mean leaving Sammy, and that’s a no-go.

Every time Dean stops and sits, his heart starts to race because it feels like he’s letting his guard down, is leaving the both of them open for attack. He sits sideways in his chair, scanning their surroundings to check and make sure there aren’t any threats. He keeps getting lost in his head though, and then jerks back into the present when Sam says his name very loudly. The confusion that follows those episodes is always quickly washed away by anger at himself for letting his concentration slip.

Sam has more soup for dinner. He brings Dean the sandwich again, and becomes increasingly agitated the longer Dean refuses to eat. To placate him, Dean forces the sandwich past the nausea that’s been climbing up his throat. It sits heavily in his gut, and he tries to wash it down with five fingers of the good stuff, but what usually has such a soothing effect on him—booze and food—only seems to make this slimy, crawling feeling under his skin worse.

There’s a fine tremor in his hands again. Dean clenches the fingers of his right hand into a fist—that hurts his shoulder, but the pain helps him focus. He keeps careful watch of the entry to the library until, at about four in the morning, he notices how Sam is nodding off over his research.

When Dean gets up, he briefly gets dizzy, but then he’s at Sam’s side.

“C’mon, Sammy,” he coaxes, softly. “Bedtime.”

When Sam only snores lightly in reply, Dean decides to leave him be, and just get him a blanket so he doesn’t get cold.

He gets dizzy again a couple times, but it’s not until he’s on his way back, blanket for Sam clutched in his hands, that the hairs at the back of his neck stand up and his heart picks up speed.

There’s something there.

Something is watching.

Dean whips around, but the corridor is empty left and right. His instincts rarely lead him wrong though, and he frantically tries to remember what happened to his gun after Sam took it away. After hurrying back to the library and tucking Sam in with the blanket the best he can while Sam is slumped over the table, Dean tears through his room. He finds his gun on his desk. It’s still splattered with his own blood, smeared across the handle first by his own hand and then by Sam’s. Sam must have put Dean’s gun on the desk when he went and grabbed Dean a blanket, and then forgotten about it.

Distantly, Dean remembers that his plan was to make Mom come back home, so Sam would stop missing her and wouldn’t put himself in danger. Dean still doesn’t understand why it didn’t work. Is Mom angry with Dean? What did he do wrong? If he could just concentrate for a moment, maybe he could remember. Could figure out why nothing is making any goddamn sense.

First things first though. He has to figure out what is haunting the bunker, and kill it.

Dean takes off the sling holding his injured arm in place, then checks the hallway, gun at the ready. He has to use both hands to keep it steady, and his shoulder burns and throbs and screams in protest. He tunes it out.

Dean checks all the rooms and finds them empty, and yet that feeling that something’s there only gets stronger.

What if something—somehow—followed him over from the other world and is now in the bunker with them?

Dean tries to reach the kitchen, but his legs shake so badly he has to stop and lean on the wall for support.

What if he brought something evil in here with him, and it’s going to hurt everyone?

His shoulder burns and feels oddly warm and wet, but he doesn’t look to check what’s wrong with it. He stumbles along the wall, fumbles for the light switch when he reaches the kitchen, heart pounding, gun shaking in his grip.

The overhead lights burn coldly down onto the smooth surfaces of the counters and the floor.

The kitchen is empty.

Whatever it is seems to be keeping to the hallways. Maybe the wards are stopping it from entering the rooms?

Dean sinks down the wall outside the kitchen, desperately trying to blink away the spots in his vision. To _think_. He probs his gun up on his knees, then tucks his blanket tighter around himself in a desperate effort to stop the shaking. The nausea is climbing back up his throat, making his mouth taste like pennies and forcing him to swallow compulsively in an effort to keep it down.

What if it’s Michael?

What if he left his vessel and followed Dean through the portal to—to—

He loses his train of thought as panic overtakes him. What has he done? He should never have come back. The ache of guilt and shame spreads through his chest and his eyes burn. Dean can’t focus long enough to remember what he was even supposed to be doing in that other world, but he remembers failing whatever it was. Remembers going alone so that Sam and Cas wouldn’t have to go there, so they’d be safe.

And now he’s brought this danger to them.

They will get hurt.

They will die.

The certainty of it has Dean’s vision blur with tears. His breath hitches and he angrily wipes at his tears but more follow, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. They burn, and it hurts.

It hurts because he’s weak.

Bad things happen because he’s weak. Dean wants to rip that weakness out of himself by the roots, but he doesn’t know where to start. It’s everywhere. He’s pretty sure his shoulder is bleeding, but it doesn’t seem to bleed out of him, this weakness.

Maybe if he dug deeper.

Maybe if he digs his fingers into the wound, he can force it out of him.

Dean’s gun clatters when he lets it fall to the floor. Fumbling his hand underneath the hoodie, he rips off the pressure bandage. He takes a deep breath and tries to steel himself, but when he digs his fingers in, the pain still hits him like a punch to the gut. It’s almost impossible to hold back the pathetic noises that built in his throat. His heart is jackhammering, and the nausea is so strong he can taste bile in his mouth.

He digs in deeper.

Icy and hot flashes race over his skin in turns, and he breaks out in a cold sweat.

Out, he has to get it _out_.

Something _rips_ , and he can barely hold back the scream, can’t stop the tears. His nails dig into his flesh, and then bile is choking him. Dean slumps to the side, coughing, fighting for breath. His vision goes white, and then dark, and the last thing he feels is the cold, wet floor under his cheek.

>

The noise of the front door banging shut jerks Dean awake. Completely disoriented, he struggles to sit up, then gasps as pain explodes in his shoulder and all the way down his side and into the tips of his fingers.

Grabbing his gun with his left, he struggles to his feet. He has to hold onto the wall for support, and his touch leaves behind dark smears.

It hurts to walk. It hurts to breathe.

His head swims and his legs shake and he can’t keep his gun steady.

What if Dean’s too weak to stop whatever just entered the bunker, and it gets past him and kills Sammy? What if it tortures him, and there will be nothing Dean can do to stop it?

His chest clenches and his eyes burn, and he tries to blink away the images of Sam battered and bruised, screaming for Dean.

Dean can’t really walk fast, and by the time the entrance to the war room comes into view, his heart is racing and he can’t catch his breath. But he can hear voices now, and with a surge of relief he realizes one of them is Sam’s.

“—didn’t mean to fall asleep. Dammit! We gotta go look for him.”

Dean rounds the corner.

Sam is talking and motioning with his hands in that way he does when he’s really agitated. Several very full plastic bags are resting on the tabletop, and standing right next to them is Cas.

Cas is here.

Dean’s panic and despair eases so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Cas is safe, he’s okay. And if he’s here, that means there’s someone besides Dean who can keep Sam safe. Cas will protect Sam from the thing inside the bunker, from Michael, from everything. Cas will understand, he will help Dean.

Distantly, Dean becomes aware that Sam has suddenly stopped talking, that both he and Cas are staring at Dean with something like horror on their faces. Dean doesn’t understand why. He stumbles towards Cas, driven by the need to make sure he’s really okay and to show him how glad Dean is that he’s here.

His right arm won’t lift and hurts real bad. His gun is not in his hand anymore.

Dean falls against Cas, uses his good arm to wrap around him, to clench fingers into the back of his coat. Cas’s arms come up around him a beat later, and Dean can’t help the way he sags a little in his hold. His legs are shaking like there’s an earthquake happening right beneath his feet, and it’s hard to keep standing. Dean loses a bit of time to the relief of being held up. When he blinks back into the present, sound filters back in.

“—did you _do_ ?! Jesus, Dean! _Dean_!”

Sammy. That’s Sammy’s voice. Sammy needs him.

It hurts, but Dean forces himself to let go off Cas. Standing on his own is very hard, but then he’s guided to sit down in the nearest chair.

Sam is pushing Dean’s blanket off him, and only when it pools around his hips does Dean see the dark smears on it. There’s dirt on his blanket, _germs_ , and the fact that he didn’t notice until now makes him shudder. He needs to put it in the wash, right now—Sam batters his hand away. “Dammit, Dean,” he curses. He unzips Dean’s hoodie enough to get at his shoulder, then sucks in a sharp breath.

“What—Dean what did you _do_?!”

Sam sounds shocked. Angry. He grabs Dean’s trembling left hand. Stares at the dried blood on it. Then looks at Dean’s shoulder again with a horrified expression.

There are dark smears all down the front of Dean’s hoodie too. It smells like puke. He really wants to wash, now.

Sam towers over him, he’s asking, “ _Why_? Dean, why did you do this to yourself?”

“Dean?” Cas asks, frowning, when Dean doesn’t answer.

Dean swallows, and avoids both of their eyes. He picks at his blanket with his blood stained fingers. It feels like there’s pieces of flesh under his nails.

He wants to explain, but he—it’s so shameful. Looking at Sam and Cas, Dean feels small, and disgusting, and wrong.

Sam blows out a breath.

“Alright,” he says, sounding impatient. “Cas, can you please just heal Dean? And then we can—”

Cas is already reaching for him, and Dean shies away.

Cas shouldn’t touch him. He’ll get dirty.

“Dean—”

Dean clenches his eyes shut, shakes his head. “You—you need to save your strength. There’s something in here, Cas. In the bunker. It’s dangerous,” he pleads.

Cas exchanges a look of confusion with Sam.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks. “Did you see something?”

“He might be hallucinating,” Cas says, frowning down at Dean. Dean wants to argue, but Sam is already talking again.

“Alright, Dean, look—if there’s really something dangerous here, how do you expect to fight it like this?” He gestures up and down Dean’s body. “You can barely stand.”

Sam isn’t wrong. Dean is laughably weak right now. Sam and Cas can’t trust him to have their backs like this, and that leaves Dean torn. He licks his lips. “Okay,” he concedes, defeated.

Sam blows out a breath. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says, sounding like Dean just took a huge weight off his back, and Dean hates himself for making Sam’s life so difficult.

Dean closes his eyes when Cas touches his forehead, and shivers as the Grace rushes through him. When the pulsing, nauseating pain is lifted from his shoulder, he can’t help the gasp of relief.

Cas is still touching him, and when Dean opens his eyes, Cas is frowning down at him. Sam looks between the both of them in confusion. “Cas?”

“There’s something—” Cas breaks himself off, then narrows his eyes at Dean. “You were poisoned.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat. Anxiety spikes in his chest, making his breath catch.

“There’s also traces of an antidote in your system, but it doesn’t seem to have worked completely.”

“So this is what’s been going on?” Sam sounds excited and alarmed at the same time, but Dean can barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. “This is why he’s been all, um, confused and self-destructive?”

Dean knew it. He’d felt it. He’d known there was something in him, something bad, that he was too weak to fight. Too weak to get out on his own. What if it makes him hurt Sam and Cas? What if it makes him—

“Dean, hey. Hey, are you listening? Cas thinks he can fix this. Okay?”

Sam is waving his hands in front of Dean’s face. Dean hadn’t noticed how his vision had blurred, and he blinks to clear it. His face is wet. Sam is wearing that gentle, reassuring smile he wears when he tries to soothe shell-shocked civilians they just saved from something supernatural. Dean doesn’t understand. They’re not safe. They’re in _danger_.

“Get it out,” he rasps. He reaches, fumbles for Cas’s arm. “It’s in me, you have to get it out!”

“Dean—”

“Hey, calm down—”

“Get it _out_! Get it out of me!”

“Dean!”

Suddenly, Sam is filling his vision, holding him by the shoulders. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey—Dean, we’re going to help you. Okay? But you need to take a breath.” He breathes in deeply and motions for Dean to follow his lead.

Dean tries. He fucking tries, but it’s as if whatever is in him doesn’t let him. It’s behind the wheel now, and Dean can’t take it back. He can’t get any air past the tightness in his throat and chest and his heart is like a drum that’s being beaten faster and faster. Spots dance in his vision and when he opens his mouth he finds he cannot speak.

The next thing he knows, Cas’s hands settle on top of his head.

“—burn it out of you,” Dean barely hears through the ringing. “But its hold on you is strong, so—this will probably hurt, I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t care. He can’t take much more of this, he isn’t strong enough. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, bracing himself. It must be answer enough, because a beat later he feels the touch of Cas’s Grace again. And then his veins are on _fire_ , and he can’t help the way his mouth drops open in a silent scream, how he clings to Cas’s wrists.

It lasts maybe three seconds, but when the pain ebbs away, the fog of anxiety goes with it. Clarity comes with a sickening lurch of shame at the way he’s been acting, how he let this get to him and didn’t even put up a fight.

Sam and Cas are talking to him, and one of them guides Dean’s head between his knees, tells him to breathe. Dean gets in one inhale and then something’s blocking his throat, like he’s been underwater all this time and swallowed some of it, acid and burning hot. He tries to warn them both but is too slow, and then he’s throwing up all over their shoes.

His stomach is empty, so it’s just bile, but it still makes Cas and Sam jump back in surprise. It chokes Dean until he spits it all out, and then he keeps dry heaving, both hands white-knuckling the blanket in his lap. A warm, broad palm lands on his back, rubbing gentle circles. Dean can hear his brother’s voice, but can’t understand the words over the rushing in his ears.

He’s still busy trying to get his breathing back under control when he feels Sam tugging the blanket further over his lap, and that’s when he realizes his crotch is wet. He’s fucking _pissed_ himself at some point, and his face and eyes burn from the utter humiliation.

Slowly, the nausea fades, and his heart stops trying to break through the cage of his ribs. Dean puts an elbow on the table and hides his face in his hand. Sam stops rubbing his arm and Dean hears the rustle of shifting fabric as he straightens. “Anything?” Sam asks, and then Cas’s voice comes from Dean’s left.

“I checked everywhere but I’m fairly sure there’s nothing here.”

“Alright, okay. That’s good! You hear that, Dean? There’s nothing dangerous here with us, we’re safe.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t face them. He’s been acting completely out of line, jumping at shadows like a stupid little kid. They’ve wasted _hours_ of time they could have used to get Mom and Jack back, all because he couldn’t man up and push through this.

“Dean?”

He’s let them down. He’s let them all down.

“Sam,” Cas is saying, “Maybe we should—”

Dean pushes his chair back and stands up. He keeps his eyes on the floor and gathers the blanket around himself to try and hide—well, everything.

Sam and Cas don’t stop him when he beelines it out of the room, but he can feel their eyes on his back until he turns the corner.

After mechanically grabbing a change of clothes, he locks himself in the shower. The hot water pounds onto his back, runs down his still unsteady legs. Dean hangs his head, closes his eyes, and lets the water run in little rivers over his face. When the tears try to come back, he clenches his jaw and folds his hands into fists against the tiles.

He tries his damnest not to think.

When he shuts off the water, his skin is pink and his fingers have started to prune. After putting his soiled clothes in the wash and starting a cycle, he can’t stall anymore. A deep breath, another, and then he’s got his game face back on.

The war room smells like artificial spring flowers, so someone must have scrubbed the floor. Dean pretends not to notice.

The bags of food are gone. There’s just Sam, hunched over his laptop with a frown of concentration. He looks up when Dean enters, offers him a tentative smile.

“Hey. Feeling better?”

Dean shrugs, and chooses a chair far away from the one where he’d been sitting earlier.

“Any news on Gabriel?”

“Uh, no. Nothing so far.” Sam visibly hesitates for a second, then plows on. “Look, Dean, I know what you just went through must’ve sucked, like, epically, but. Can you just tell me what happened? Because you said some guy shot you but that Ketch took care of it, but nothing about—”

“Poisoned bullet,” Dean says, interrupting him, just as Cas enters the war room. “Ketch mixed up some antidote, guess he got a couple things wrong.” He tries to make it sound like it’s no big deal, but judging from Sam’s incredulous expression he ain’t buying what Dean’s selling.

Which is just too bad, because it’s all Dean’s got to offer.

Cas sets a steaming container of what smells like pad thai in front of Dean, and—an actual fucking glass of milk. “You should eat,” Cas says, and he sounds so caring, like Dean isn’t a complete and utter fuck-up.

Dean can’t meet his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says, awkwardly cleaning his throat. “And, you know, for—” He vaguely gestures between his shoulder and his head.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t deserve the soft way Cas says his name at all. Cas puts a hand on his shoulder—the left one, the one that Dean didn’t shoot all to hell in his stupidity—and squeezes briefly. Then he draws back a chair and sits down between Sam and Dean.

Keeping his head down, Dean pokes at his food, but Sam is like a dog with a bone when he thinks Dean should talk about something he doesn’t want to talk about.

“Okay, but, when I tried to find out what was going on with you, and I asked you about what happened, you didn’t mention anything about poison—did you, I mean, couldn’t you remember?”

Dean chews, and shrugs. “Not sure, I mean it was all kinda muddled. Guess I just didn’t think it mattered.” At Sam’s disbelieving expression, Dean forces himself to add, “Look, this stuff fucked with my head, okay? I just cared about not getting you in danger, everything else was just—” He sighs. “It just didn’t matter,” he repeats, helplessly.

“It was likely a poison meant to subdue a victim after capture,” Cas chimes in. “Keep them weakened and constantly anxious. Maybe whatever Ketch gave you took care of the other components of the poison but only delayed the onset of this one.”

Dean decides to go with that, because the only other explanation is that he’s completely fucked in the head and will end up useless for their mission.

“Well, I’m just glad you could fix it, Cas,” Sam says. “Because not gonna lie, that was kinda scary. I haven’t seen Dean this out of his mind since his car got towed in Sea Pines and he’d thought it’d been stolen.” He chuckles, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Dean rolls with it and arranges his face into an annoyed frown. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” He takes a big gulp of the milk, because hey, it’s right there and he’s thirsty. Some of it sticks to his upper lip, and Cas huffs a breath of amusement, making the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle. Dean’s heart gives a hollow pang, and he swallows and quickly looks away.

“Imma go grab a beer. You guys want a beer?”

The feeling of being watched is gone when he walks through the hallways towards the kitchen. Instead, he just feels weighted down, and tired. 

The pain is gone from his shoulder, but when he wiped the condensation from the mirror after his shower, he saw that the bullet wound that he got in the other world has left a scar. Maybe because it was done with an angel killing bullet, Cas couldn’t heal it fully.

Dean grabs three beers. The pot where he’d heated up the soup for Sam is still on the stove. The fridge, when he checks it, is filled to bursting.

The sight makes him feel so pathetic, all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep and forget. But he can’t. They’ve got a mission, and Dean has to, he _needs_ to make sure Sam and Cas come out of it alive.

Dean is not going to go through that portal with them and then bring either of their bodies back home. He is _not_ . He _won’t_ let that happen, he _can’t_.

Setting down the beer, Dean braces himself on the countertop. The cold metal chills the sweaty palms of his hands. He counts the beats of his heart until it slows down again.

Until he can pretend, again, that he isn’t afraid.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 22For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains.
> 
> 23I will heap mischiefs upon them; I will spend mine arrows upon them.
> 
> 24They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction: I will also send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust.
> 
> 25The sword without, and terror within, shall destroy both the young man and the virgin, the suckling also with the man of gray hairs.
> 
> 26I said, I would scatter them into corners, I would make the remembrance of them to cease from among men:
> 
> 27Were it not that I feared the wrath of the enemy, lest their adversaries should behave themselves strangely, and lest they should say, Our hand is high, and the LORD hath not done all this.
> 
> The Song of Moses (Judges 5:1-31, King James Bible)
> 
>  
> 
> I wanted to have this beta read before posting, but real life has been an assbutt since before Christmas and my chronic exhaustion getting worse again didn't help either, and I didn't get it done in time. If you find mistakes, please tell me so I can fix them!
> 
> Comments mean the world to me, so if you enjoyed this, please let me know! It would also mean a lot to me if you could [reblog my fic on tumblr!](http://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/post/182277599086/the-sword-without-dean-centric-post-13x18-canon) Thank you!!! 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ [cuddlemonsterdean](http://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/)


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